


A Peculiar Affiliation

by Atiki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL OF IT, First Kiss, First Time, It's all about John being jealous, Jealous John, Jealous Trash, Like who are we kidding there's going to be sex eventually, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rating might go up, Sherlock's Past, drug mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiki/pseuds/Atiki
Summary: Sherlock has one (1) distant relative he doesn’t actually despise. This very distant relative happens to be gorgeous and smart, used to spend the summer months with Sherlock when they were both young and seems eager to pick up exactly where they left off.
When she decides to come for a visit, John is not pleased.
It’s not that he’s jealous, of course. He really isn’t jealous at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Warning:**  
>  1) At certain points in this story, John suspects (!) Sherlock has had a romantic or sexual relationship with a female character who is his relative. It has to be noted that Sherlock and this (distant) relative are not blood-related (which is explained in this chapter) so an incestuous relationship is neither implied nor described. I chose a distant relative rather than a childhood friend, mainly because I liked the family background aspect of it all.  
> 2) Sherlock’s (past) drug addiction is discussed  
> 3) Coming Out issues
> 
> Hey hey listen, this is important: If you find the premise interesting you might be pleased to know that there’s an AMAZING fic with a similar plotline and original character, namely [The Edinburgh Problem](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2392997/chapters/5287721) by [snorklepie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snorklepie/pseuds/snorklepie).  
> This fic is not based on The Edinburgh Problem (as I hadn’t read it when I started to write this fic) but there are certain staggering similarities and the author was kind enough to inform me of the fact. Anyway, please do yourself a favour and read The Edinburgh Problem it if you like case fics and fantastic writing.

Sherlock’s phone rang on a peaceful Saturday morning and Sherlock did not yell at it.

This was unusual.

 

John was well acquainted to the three different ways Sherlock might react to a phone call.

(1. the aforementioned yelling (= boring case, idiot client, Lestrade in general).  
2\. inappropriate but rather contagious excitement (= interesting murder).  
3\. ignorance and subsequent complete denial that the phone call had ever taken place (= Mycroft or Mummy))

John had never seen Sherlock smile fondly at the display of his iPhone before answering.

No, this had never happened before.

 

Sherlock grabbed his phone, smiled idly for a second or two, slumped down onto the sofa and said, “oh, hello. Did you catch your train? – Oh, marvellous.”

He didn’t sound irritated or inconvenienced by the mere mortal who had decided to contact him. Actually, he sounded pleased.

Sherlock never sounded pleased about people who weren’t John.

John realised he was staring, so he tried to concentrate on his toast. Who was calling Sherlock about catching a train? Were they going to have a visitor? A client?

“Oh please,” Sherlock said, “it’s a miracle. Your sense of time has always been appalling. You were late to your own graduation, I believe -- I know.” There was a pause. “Yes. Obviously.”

Not a client then. Sherlock knew this person. An old friend? Did Sherlock actually have old friends?

(John did realise, of course, that there was a pretty slim chance that Sherlock had never had a friend before. The man had been to university after all. He just didn’t like to think about it. He hadn’t really met a single friend of Sherlock’s other than Lestrade over the last seven years. Did Mycroft count? No, no he didn't. (And, most importantly, _John_  was still Sherlock’s best friend, thank you very much.))

“Two and a half hours?” Sherlock said after another long pause, “ah. And when will you be finished with your—your meeting, yes. Will you be hungry? John and I order takeaway. We always do. Well, not always, but… Hmm. I could ask Mrs Hudson—No. Alright. Do you still like Chinese? You’ve always liked Chinese. John doesn’t believe me when I say that I can predict the fortune cookies, so I could do with someone who’s on my side.”

John could practically _hear_ Sherlock smile at the other person’s response. “Spoilsport,” he said then. “Should I pick you up from—no. No, of course. Of course you know how to—Yes. Dinner will be ready.”

 

So someone was going to have dinner with them, apparently. Sherlock inviting people over was not a thing that happened, and when it did, a psychopath usually peed in their fireplace and things went downhill from that point.

 

The person Sherlock was on the phone with didn’t really sound like a psychopath, so far.

And, what was even stranger, Sherlock sounded eager to have dinner with this someone.

 

“Yes,” said Sherlock. And then he actually _giggled_. “Mmh. Probably. I’m really looking forward to seeing you too… Mmh. Yes. Of course I’m excited. It’s been a long time and I missed you--”

John blinked. Had he—had Sherlock just said that?

“ _Please_ , I’m _being_ completely honest,” Sherlock added emphatically. “Yes. Obviously. I’ll see you at six.”

 

Sherlock remained slumped on the couch for another minute before joining John at the breakfast table. He poured himself a cup of coffee, reached for John’s newspaper and made a contented sound.

“So,” John began, because explanations were in order and Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to offer any, “care to tell me who’s joining us for dinner tonight?”

Sherlock peered at him over the newspaper. “Lucinda,” he said as if it was completely obvious. 

John put down his toast that was still only half-eaten. “Who?”

“My cousin. Lucinda. Second cousin. Sort of. I told you about her.”

John was sure he’d never heard that name before. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did. Yesterday afternoon, while I was dissolving the first skin samples I collected at the morgue on Thursday. I told you that I haven’t seen her in nine years and she’s coming for a visit, all the way from Paris—“

John was positive that had never heard a single word about Sherlock’s cousin from Paris in his life.

“Are you sure you said any of this out loud?”

Sherlock frowned. “Approximately eighty per cent sure,” he said slowly.

Typical.

John smirked. “I’ll put my money on the other twenty. Either that, or you told me while I was downstairs with Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock looked genuinely startled. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Sherlock vanished behind the newspaper again. 

John cleared his throat, because explanations were still not happening. “So. Your cousin.”

“Yes. Technically she’s not my cousin, she’s the step daughter of my oldest cousin, who happens to be older than my father. Lucinda and I are not _properly_ related, as a matter of fact. I call her my cousin because it’s easier. Don’t overthink my family background, John, it’s for your own good.”

“Ah,” said John.

“Lucinda and I used to spend the summer months with my grandmother, at her mansion in Essex. Awful woman.” Sherlock reached for his coffee and eyed it. “My grandmother, that is. For some odd reason, she decided to offer her guest rooms to the two grandchildren she despised the most. Granted, Lucinda is not her granddaughter, but you get the idea. It was presumably an attempt to turn us into respectable members of her family, she was very keen on being respectable, and Lucinda and I didn’t really… fit the bill, in this regard.”

Sherlock frowned, and for a second John thought he might be remembering something. Something unpleasant, perhaps.

John didn’t know much about Sherlock’s extended family. Sherlock’s parents were lovely, and Mycroft was _Mycroft_ , but according to bits and pieces of Holmes family history he’d picked up over the years, every single one of them was an exception to the rule.

“Lucinda and I spent a lot of time together,” Sherlock continued, “until she quit university and moved to France. She’s coming to London for the first time in years, to meet a client and to catch up with… things.”

Sherlock’s nose appeared above the newspaper. He gave John a look. “John, she’s my only relative who’s not completely insufferable. I’ve always enjoyed spending time with her. Actually, she has made several months of my life entirely… bearable, which really can’t be said about the rest of my family. She’s –“ Sherlock cut himself off and blinked exactly three times. “She’s very smart.”

That was pretty much the highest compliment Sherlock had ever paid anyone in John’s presence.

“Alright,” John said.

Sherlock hummed contentedly, as if he was at complete and utter peace with the world, now that his cousin was coming for a visit.

John swallowed. “She’s coming for dinner? Today?”

“She’s staying for three days.”

John sucked in a sharp breath. Well, that was a surprise, then. He wasn’t sure he liked it. “What, here?”

Sherlock gulped down an admirable amount of coffee in one go. “Of course here, John. Where else am I supposed to put her?”

John shrugged. He had no idea, to be honest.

“The only other place I own that has a bed in it,” said Sherlock thoughtfully, “is the hotel room where the Lewisham Reaper murdered thirteen women. I can’t make her sleep there, can I?” He seemed to contemplate this for a second. “No, she says she finds this sort of thing creepy. She’s strange like that.” He took another sip of his coffee. “So, Baker Street it is.”

John didn’t mention that every single person in the world other than Sherlock found murder rooms creepy. “You own a hotel room?” he asked instead, because this was news to him. After all these years, things like that were still news to him. That was sort of comical if you thought about it.

“Yes,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “I won a bet. Long story. I don’t really know what to do with it, though. I use it to store Lestrade’s cold case files.”

“The ones you steal because he won’t give them to you voluntarily?”

“Yes.”

John considered this and decided that he wasn’t the slightest bit surprised. It made perfect sense for Sherlock to own a crime scene, really.

“Where is your cousin going to sleep, though? You can’t offer her the sofa, you know that, right? It’s uncomfortable, and there are still those acid stains, and I guess your cousin doesn’t fancy having holes burned through her skin in the middle of the night—“

“She’s going to sleep in my bed,” Sherlock said.

“She’s—what?”

“She’s sleeping in my bed,” Sherlock repeated slowly. He eyed John for a second, then added, “Do relax, John. _I’m_ going to sleep on the sofa. Obviously. I don’t mind the sofa, and I know how to avoid the acid stains.”

John felt something akin to relief for a second or two. Then, however, he remembered the last time he’d found a woman in Sherlock’s bed, and something entirely unpleasant started to boil in his lower abdomen.

The fact that Sherlock was offering his bed to someone was a bizarre concept, even after everything that had happened with Irene Adler. And Janine. Oh god. John really had to stop thinking about women who’d been in Sherlock’s bed before he lost his mind.

When he’d moved back into 221B after the whole ordeal wit Mary, he’d never expected that _women in Sherlock’s bed_ was a thing that was ever going to happen again.   
And now he was about to add a third name to the list of _women who'd been in Sherlock's stupid bed_ , and he really, really hated the prospect.

Sherlock finally put the newspaper down. “John,” he said slowly, “I want Lucinda to have a good time in London. I really do. Her job is stressful and she’ll mostly want to relax once she’s done with her business meetings… or whatever it is she’s doing today, I didn’t listen. It’s business… something. You’re not allowed to upset her.”

John snorted. “Why would I upset her?”

Sherlock made an exasperated hand gesture. “I don’t know!” he exclaimed, “just don’t— don’t—“ Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible and peered at his coffee mug.

“Come again?” said John slowly.

“Nothing.” Sherlock vanished behind the newspaper once more. “I just—“ he cut himself off, “I really _missed_ her.”

Sherlock looked as startled about his own statement as John felt, but that didn’t really help. John felt something in his chest tighten.

 

God, he hoped this didn’t mean what he thought it meant. He wasn’t sure what he thought it meant, and he was even less sure why he didn’t like the idea he wasn’t sure he was having.

 _What_?

 

“I’ll order takeaway at six-ish,” Sherlock announced before starting to clear the table, “You’re having roasted chicken with mushrooms, judging by your shirt. Don’t be late for dinner.” He frowned. “On the other hand, do be late for dinner. Lucinda will most certainly be. She always is. Late, I mean.” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. “I’ll try to finish the skin sample analysis until then. Tell Mrs Hudson not to bother me with food.”

John gaped at him for a second (mostly because he really fancied roasted chicken with mushrooms and for once he had no idea how Sherlock had worked that out), then he walked downstairs to do just that.

 

\---

 

Mrs Hudson did not only promise to absolutely bother Sherlock with food, she also affectionately coerced John into having a second breakfast and told him in detail about her last bingo evening and the fact that Mrs Turner next door was now dating a retired butcher. John escaped after an hour, claiming that he had to pick up groceries. Mrs Hudson was delighted about the fact and handed him an exhaustive shopping list that contained things like ‘extra soft lavender laundry dream’, which was most certainly not sold at Tesco. Or was it? Why did emergency lies never work out?

John heard muffled rattling noises from upstairs when he left.

He contemplated checking on Sherlock for a second, but then he decided that skin samples were neither flammable nor explosive and he really had no reason to be worried.

At least not about the experiment.

 

\---

 

John returned home several hours later. He hadn’t been able to find Extra Soft Lavender Laundry Dream and had bought Super Peachy Laundry Delight instead. Mrs Hudson would have to deal with that.

He had taken a long walk first, then he’d picked up all every single item on Mrs Hudson’s list (even the purple knee socks, John would never forget the look the cashier had given him), and taken another long walk.

He felt… good, actually. A lot less confused. He really had needed a bit of fresh air to be able to face _the woman who was going to sleep in Sherlock’s bed_ and who had also spent several months of his teenage years (and early twenties, presumably) with him. In the guest room of a pompous mansion in Essex, of all places.

Why had Sherlock never told him about her, anyway? Was there something he didn’t want John to know?

John wasn’t sure why, but the prospect of meeting Sherlock’s cousin made him deeply uncomfortable.

 

It was not that he was jealous, of course. Obviously, spending the summer with a girl your age didn’t have to mean anything (although sometimes it did, especially when you were a teenager and your hormones were going rogue). And being excited to meet the girl you’d spent your summers with when you were a teenager didn’t have to mean anything either.

And even if it did, John wouldn’t mind. Sherlock was an adult, of course there were people he’d been… close to before. At some point, he must have been young and curious and less… less _Sherlock_ , less the way he was now, claiming his body was just transport and everything.

And, clearly, Sherlock did have some sort of soft spot for certain women. Irene had… happened. And John distinctly remembered the day he’d found Janine half-naked in their flat. It had taken John around half a year to fully realise that that had actually happened as well, it hadn’t been a hallucination of some sort. The engagement might have been fake, but other things most probably weren’t. He shivered involuntarily.

There was no reason to be upset about any of this. Or uncomfortable. Obviously not.

Also, John’s worries might have been completely unfounded. Sherlock valued Lucinda’s intelligence, he had made that very clear. Their relationship was probably purely intellectual and always had been. Maybe they were just distant relatives who enjoyed a deep conversation from time to time. Yes, that was probably it. Sherlock was not a physically affectionate person, and he probably liked Lucinda because she wasn’t either. She was probably the most buttoned-up person in the world.

John rather like this idea.

 

John was jolted out of his thoughts as he walked upstairs.

Sherlock was laughing. His deep, rumbly, genuine laugh that was not forced or an act -- and there was another voice, distinctly female, not Mrs Hudson’s.

John glanced at his watch. It was only half past three. Sherlock’s cousin wasn’t late, she had arrived early.

Into battle, then. John took a deep breath and entered the flat.

 

John wasn’t sure what kind of person he had expected when Sherlock told him about his not-actually-second-cousin Lucinda. The name was old-fashioned and posh and, no matter how distant a not-actually-relative she was, the woman was a member of a family that had spawned both Sherlock and Mycroft. An environment like that had to leave a mark on a person. Nature and nurture and everything.

 

John clearly hadn’t imagined a posh, buttoned-up, socially awkward middle-aged aristocrat with expensive reading glasses on her nose. What a ridiculous cliché.

 

No actually, that was precisely what he had imagined.

 

Lucinda was in her thirties, maybe two or three years younger than Sherlock; She was tall and slim, taller than John by at least two inches, though it was hard to tell since she was wearing high heels. Probably the highest heels John had ever seen in his life, in fact.

She was standing next to the kitchen table where Sherlock was sat in front of his skin samples, and she was talking rather agitatedly, running her hand through her short, platinum blonde hair that was in complete disarray.

“—so I told him to go fuck himself and left. Colette won’t be happy, actually she might break into my apartment and kill me in my sleep, because apparently this piece of crap is sort of important, I mean, I’ve been told he basically runs the British branch of her company, but to tell you the truth, I don’t care. It’s not the first deal I blew, and she knows how I react to those chauvinists she like to hire, it’s hardly my fault it didn’t work out. She shouldn’t have sent _me_ in the first place. Serves her right. The best part is that I got out of there after less than ten minutes, and now I’m here with my nutjob of a cousin who’s boiling leather on the kitchen table because he hasn’t changed at all. And that’s the whole story. What a day, honestly.”

“Mmh.” Sherlock switched off his Bunsen burner, then seemed to realise that he was still wearing his science goggles, so he removed them. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Yeah,” said Lucinda, “and I’ve been here for ten minutes, you have finished your disgusting experiment and yet you haven’t hugged me. You’re not getting out of this.”

Sherlock chuckled, put his goggles down on the table and got up to wrap his arms around her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Lucinda hugged him back, buried her face in his neck and hummed contentedly.

“My God,” she mumbled, “you have no idea how nice it is to hug you now that you’re no longer skinny as a bloody rake. I could count your ribs last time I saw you. No, screw that, it’s always nice to hug you, no matter what. Your hugs are the best.”

“Shut up,” grumbled Sherlock who didn’t seem uncomfortable, or annoyed, or… or planning on flipping her over in some sort of martial arts move to get out of her embrace.

Actually he seemed to enjoy being hugged by this woman.

 

John kind of wanted to smash something.

 

He didn’t, though. He cleared his throat audibly instead. Partly because Sherlock and Lucinda still hadn’t noticed his presence and he felt like he was invading a private moment, partly because his heart clenched in his chest and he felt like he might just actually die if this woman didn’t step away from Sherlock within the next ten seconds.

Sherlock and Lucinda broke apart, and seemed somehow unwilling to do so, which made the unpleasant something in John’s chest do a backflip.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, looking surprised ( _delighted?_ ) to see him. He gestured at John, then at Lucinda, “this is my flatmate, John,” he said stiffly, as if introducing John to his cousin was very important business.

“Um, hello,” said John helplessly.

Lucinda eyed John for a second, then her lips curled into an amiable smile. Her bright green eyes sparkled in a mixture of interest and amusement, and that alone made John feel exposed.

She took a few steps towards him, moving gracefully in her ridiculously high heels. She was wearing a short, figure-hugging blue dress that had clearly been tailored individually for her. It managed to accentuate just the right spots, in a way that looked effortless but still intentional, and it looked more expensive than John’s entire wardrobe. Given that the woman was sort of related to Sherlock, John figured he shouldn’t be surprised by the fact.

“Hello, John,” she said.

The smile she gave him was genuine, but under her jovial façade was clearly a layer of sharp, calculating competence and intellectuality. Her self-confidence was almost palpable and she was genuinely one of the most attractive women John had ever seen.

He did his best not to admit to himself that he was, maybe, not only surprised but also a tiny bit intimidated.

“You must be Lucinda,” he said somewhat awkwardly, offering her his hand, “heard a lot about you, nice to meet you.”

She took his hand and shook it forcefully. “Call me Luce, please. Lucinda was my great-grandmother.” She gave him a wide smile, just for a second, revealing flawless, blazingly white teeth. “Ghastly old woman,” she added, “god bless her. All that’s left of her is her awful name, and I’m stuck with it, but I’m making the best of it.”

Sherlock actually chuckled in response to this.

John blinked.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too, John,” Lucinda, no, Luce, said emphatically, “Sherlock doesn’t shut up about you. Just so you know.”

John had no idea what to say to that.

Luce broke the silence after a few agonizing seconds. “So. I rambled about my stupid job for a decade before you came home, John. Now it’s your turn.”

John raised both eyebrows. “My turn?”

“Yeah. Both of you, in fact. I move to Paris and my cousin becomes an internet-famous detective. You’re the celebrities in this room, and I have a VIP ticket.” She beamed at John, as if she was expecting him to laugh at her joke. “I’ve been reading your blog religiously, John, but I’m dying to hear your newest stories. So why don’t we order food and I bloody sit down for once, because my feet hurt. And I’m starving. And Sherlock hasn’t even offered me a drink yet because he’s a terrible host.” She gave Sherlock and affectionate grin.

Sherlock immediately jumped into action. “I’ll clear the kitchen table,” he announced, “it’s just that the skin needs to stay in the water for another hour and seven minutes, but then—“

“We could take the coffee table instead,” John suggested.

Luce beamed at him. “Splendid.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down. “Now, gentlemen,” she said, “get me some food.”

 

\---

 

Half an hour later, the three of them were sitting on the couch, far away from the kitchen table in order not to disturb Sherlock’s skin samples. Sherlock was in the middle, with Luce to his right and basically pressed up against him. 

Luce’s hand was on Sherlock’s thigh almost the entire time.

 

John occupied the left third of the sofa, feeling like the figurative third wheel. He was getting increasingly angry, and he wasn’t even sure about what.

Sherlock had finished telling Luce about the case of the stolen mirror they’d solved last week. He went into great detail about the code they’d found on the wall, which interested Luce greatly.

“Oooh, codes,” she exclaimed, “I’m rusty but I used to be... kind of good at this sort of stuff.”

“I’ll show you the photographs later.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Lucinda studied maths and computer science,” Sherlock explained.

“Yeah, and then I got tired of variables and numerals and bloody England and gave it all up to become a famous fashion designer. In Paris of all places. Cliché, I know, but it sort of worked. Except for the famous part, I’m still working on that.” Luce tucked into her vegetables. “Still love a good code,” she added.

John raised both eyebrows at his chicken with mushrooms. Another hyper-intelligent puzzle solver. Of course Sherlock found her fascinating.

“You’re considerably famous in certain circles, Lucinda” Sherlock said calmly.

“Stop calling me Lucinda.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “No.”

“If you call me that one more time,” Luce said dangerously, “I’ll start calling you William and treat you like we’re 14 again, and I’ll never stop. And you won’t get rid of me until Tuesday morning, so consider this a threat.”

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “You’ll treat me like we’re 14 again?”

“Yes.”

“Including the hair-pulling?”

“Absolutely.”

“And the kicking?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock put down his noodles, braced himself and said, “Lucinda Eugenie Victoria.”

Luce’s mouth dropped open in a fake-display of absolute outrage. “Don’t you dare.”

“Lucinda Eugenie Victoria Harrington-Holmes.”

Luce turned to John and exclaimed, “can you believe that?” before tossing her chopsticks aside. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she said after a perfectly timed dramatic pause, “your name is so much more ridiculous than mine, honestly.”

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock said calmly, “it has a ring to it. So does yours, by the way. Also, considering our extended family’s approach to baby names, I think we were both lucky. Given the circumstances, I mean.”

“Oh.” Luce considered this. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Remember grand aunt Kriemhilda?”

“How could I not?”

“Mmh. She still alive?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, “104 years and not tired at all. She does have problems with her lungs, though. At least that’s what my mother told me when I last talked to her.” Sherlock frowned. “Actually, she might have told me that over seven months ago. Or years. John, when was the last time Mummy called?”

“Um,” said John, frowning at his mushrooms, “I have no idea.” (He didn’t mention that seven months ago, he hadn’t even been living at Baker Street. Sherlock had probably forgotten he’d ever left. Actually, Sherlock was in such a good mood and so preoccupied with Luce, he’d probably forgotten John existed, or that he was more than a convenience. He stabbed his next mushroom with considerable force.)

“Hmm.” Sherlock, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes to slits and peered at Luce as if he was concentrating hard. “You know what,” he said then, “taking all factors into account, grand aunt Kriemhilda might just actually be dead.”

Luce snorted. “A great hypothetical loss for the world. Anyway, didn’t Kriemhilda have a daughter called--.”

“—Gradulantia?” Sherlock offered.

“Yes! Yes, that was it. Jesus, imagine being called Gradulantia.”

Sherlock managed to keep a straight face. “Imagine being called Mycroft Winston Reginald.”

Luce snorted again, so hard this time that she effectively blew her noodle off of her fork. It hit the table. “Oh my god,” she squealed, “Mycroft! How’s Mycroft? Tell me, Sherlock, has he changed _at all_?”

“No,” Sherlock said promptly, “he hasn’t. Never has, never will. He just got fat.”

“I bet he’d love to see me. We should pay him a visit. Surprise him.”

“Over my dead body,” Sherlock said, “I’m not exposing you to his hideous three-piece suits and the nuclear wars he starts over breakfast. Apart from that, he probably hasn’t forgotten about… the thing… you did in 1993. The one with the swim shorts. He’s terribly resentful.”

“Still?”

“He bears grudges for a living now.”

“And I bet it makes him very happy.”

Sherlock hummed contemplatively. “Mmmh. Not sure if there’s anything that makes him very happy.”

“Oh,” said Luce slowly, “so he  _really_ hasn’t changed.”

“Mmh.”

 

It was silent for around two minutes. They all finished their food and then just sort of sat there in silence. Sherlock and Luce seemed rather comfortable, even without the bickering and joking like a married couple. It was unbelievable that they hadn’t seen each other in nine years. They could have been best friends who barely spent a day apart.

John just felt awkward.

 

“Do you have any plans for the evening?” Sherlock asked, aimlessly picking at what was left of his chicken.

“Nah. I’ll honour the rest of the city with my presence when I’m less tired. So tomorrow. I rather fancy a night in. Is there something bearable on the telly?”

“No idea,” Sherlock said, “but feel free to check. I think the remote is in Mrs Hudson’s vase downstairs.”

Luce burst out laughing. “Why is the remote in a vase?”

“It was making a noise,” Sherlock said.

“The remote was making a noise?”

“The television was making a noise because someone had touched the remote.”

“Yeah,” Luce said, extremely amused, “that tends to happen.”

“I was trying to concentrate on--”

“—an experiment?”

Sherlock stuck his nose in the air. “Obviously,” he said.

Luce giggled and wrapped his arm around him, and this was the moment John decided he had to escape in order to preserve a minimum of his sanity.

 

Sherlock perked his head up. “Where are you going, John?” he asked, apparently startled by the fact that John was leaving.

“I, uh, don’t really feel like watching telly,” John lied, “I’m going upstairs to… finish the book I’m reading.”

Luce gave him a cheerful smile. “See you later then. Or tomorrow, because I’m going to bed early.”

“Yeah. Well. Good night, then,” John said helplessly, and fled.

 

\---

 

John had a rather agonizing evening.

He wasn’t sure when he had lost the ability to occupy himself with things that had nothing to do with Sherlock.   
It must have happened gradually over the last three months. He and Sherlock had barely spent a day apart since John had moved back in, and after everything that had happened with Mary and the child that wasn’t his, the divorce and the rather ugly last meeting with Mary, John finally felt like he’d come home. Every minute he spent around Sherlock felt like pure relief, like he’d found the place where he was supposed to be. God, he had become so sentimental, it was _unbearable_. John slumped down onto his bed and groaned.

John rarely worked at the surgery now, in fact he only took occasional shifts when a colleague was sick or there was a staff shortage during flu season. It was better this way. The surgery reminded him of a very dark time, and of a woman who had invaded his life when he was at his most vulnerable, so he was sort of eager to spend as little time there as possible.

He concentrated on Sherlock’s cases and the blog again, and it felt right. They worked and lived together. It really was like the old times, and John appreciated their peaceful domesticity very much.

 

He had no idea what to do with himself, now that Sherlock was busy with his awfully nice and disgustingly attractive not-actually-cousin.

 

John read a few pages of his (boring) book, tried to write something about the (boring) mirror case for the (boring) blog, but eventually gave up and aimlessly searched the internet for all sorts of things that came to his mind.

Like Luce’s full name, for example.

The internet didn’t offer much information about Sherlock’s cousin, except that she was a senior fashion designer for ready-to-wear collections for one Colette Verdain in Paris. There was also an Instagram profile with rather tasteful photos, mostly of clothes and healthy looking food. All the captions were in French, and John didn’t bother to attempt to translate them.

Well, this was inconclusive.

 

Why did he even care? It was not as if stalking Luce’s social media profiles was going to make her stop touching Sherlock downstairs.

 

Was she still touching Sherlock downstairs?

Was her hand still on his thigh?

 

It probably was.

 

Actually, it didn’t matter, because John didn’t even care that she was touching Sherlock. He didn’t care that she was downstairs practically embracing him on their couch. ( _Their_ couch. Sherlock and John's couch. Theirs.) Sherlock and Luce were old friends and sort of… family, and clearly comfortable with one another. John wasn’t even the smallest bit interested in that. It was none of his business. It probably didn’t mean anything at all.

 

The picture of Sherlock and Luce arm in arm on the couch had burned itself into John’s brain, and it wasn’t pleasant.

The worst part was that they looked so… _nice_ together. Both tall and gorgeous, both dressed in those posh, expensive clothes that were probably genetically determined Holmes clothes or something, looking like they'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine; Sherlock’s pale skin and dark curls a sharp contrast against Luce’s tan skin and short, platinum blonde hair. They fit together like fucking puzzle pieces and it all made John want to vomit.

 

Here he was, short, stocky, with greying hair and a pile of cable-knit jumpers in his closet, hiding in his bedroom because he couldn’t bear to face a woman his best friend presumably… _loved_ , in one way or another.

 

God knew John Watson didn’t have self-confidence issues, but right now he felt… extremely confused.

 

\---

 

When John walked downstairs to go brush his teeth, Luce had thankfully retired to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock was lying on the couch, tapping away on his phone.

“Lestrade is sending some socks over tomorrow morning,” he announced.

“Socks?”

“Mmh.”

John frowned. “Why? Is someone abducting people and leaving only their socks behind?”

Sherlock sat up abruptly, ran one hand through his curls and eyed John suspiciously. “Yes,” he said slowly, “how did you know? Lestrade said the media haven’t got their hands on the case yet. Nobody should know about it except me.”

 “I guessed.”

“What?”

“I guessed,” John repeated slowly, “I -- I’m not even surprised. It’s just, if living with you has taught me anything, it’s that the most ludicrous theory I can come up with is usually true.”

Sherlock eyed him for another five seconds. “Fascinating,” he said then, and slumped back onto the couch, “I need to tell Luce about this.”

Of course.

John scowled.

Of course Sherlock had to make this about Luce as well. If Luce wasn’t here, they would be giggling like idiots about John guessing correctly, and the crime itself, because it was a case about bloody _socks_ , and it should have been hilarious. But it wasn’t because _Sherlock’s cousin (_ who was not actually fucking related to him, John remembered _) was more important_.

It had only been a few hours, and every mention of Luce’s name made John want to rip his own hair out.

 

He marched into the bathroom and brushed his teeth angrily.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Luce was already up when John walked downstairs the next morning. She was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a tank top and pyjama bottoms, bent over something that looked like sketches of striped hats. Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

“Morning, John,” she said cheerfully.

“Morning.”

John contemplated that he should probably say something else. Luce was Sherlock’s guest, but John lived here too, which technically made him a host as well. A certain amount of politeness was probably in order.

“Um… did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Yeah, thanks. Sherlock’s bed is the softest thing I’ve ever slept in. Huge ball of cotton wool, it is.”

“Ah,” said John.

“I won’t be around today,” Luce announced. “I need to take a look at this portfolio first, but then I’ll leave you two alone. I have stuff to take care of. And so many people to meet. God, I missed this city.” She gave John a look. “I would really appreciate coffee, though. I tried to make some, but I couldn’t find the coffee filters.”

“Um, yeah. Coffee. Sure,” said John and began to busy himself with the coffee machine.

 

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, with damp hair and wearing nothing but his dressing gown.

Literally nothing but his dressing gown. (And probably pants underneath. Or not. One could never be sure.)

Sherlock did this a lot. He never pranced around fully naked, but he spent entire days in his dressing gown, or wrapped in a sheet or a blanket. John had always thought that this was due to the fact that Sherlock was comfortable in John’s presence. In Sherlock’s case, not wearing a suit and coat meant lowering his defences, taking off his armour. Without his posh suits and the Belstaff, Sherlock was a lot more… approachable. And he was aware of that.

And apparently, Sherlock didn’t have trouble showing himself like this, entirely unguarded, in Luce’s presence.

 

John stomped into the bathroom and left Luce and Sherlock and the coffee behind.

 

When he returned to the kitchen, freshly showered, Sherlock was leaning against the fridge, sipping coffee and peering over Luce’s shoulder at the sketches in front of her. Or at Luce herself. John couldn’t really tell.

Luce looked up from her portfolio and grinned. “John, is he staring at the back of my head again?”

Sherlock, who had indeed been staring at the back of Luce’s head, practically spun around and peered at the refrigerator instead. It wasn’t even an honest attempt to hide what he’d been doing.

“He was staring at the back of my head when I wasn’t looking, wasn’t he?”

John frowned.

“It’s my hair,” Luce explained, “my hair used to be long. Very long, actually. I used to swear on the bible that I would never cut it. But in the end I did, because swearing on the bible honestly doesn’t mean much to me.”

Sherlock chuckled in response to that.

“Sherlock’s still not used to my new hair style,” said Luce. “Took him completely by surprise when I walked in here.” Luce gave John a conspiratorial smile. “He won’t admit it but he wants my old hair back. He’s actually really bad at dealing with change, you know. He always has been. When you haven’t seen him in a while, he expects you to be exactly the way you were when he last saw you. And when you surprise him, something in his big old brain sort of… explodes, I think.”

John sighed. Actually, this was not news to him. “I know,” he said helplessly.

“I’m _here_ ,” Sherlock grumbled and continued staring at the fridge.

“It’s okay, Sherlock.” Luce got up and wrapped her arm around Sherlock’s waist. Then she put one hand on Sherlock’s thigh and squeezed. Sherlock let it happen.

Luce beamed. “I’m sorry, you’re so easy to tease. Not as easy as Mycroft, but still.”

Sherlock wrapped his arm around Luce’s waist as well, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They looked perfectly at ease with one another. John felt like the unpleasant bubbling something in his abdomen was trying to leave his body.

“I promise I’ll grow my hair out again. The next time we see each other, I’ll let you braid it.”

“That’s a relief,” said Sherlock sarcastically.

 “Yeah, admit it, you were looking forward to braiding my bloody hair, you prick, and now you’re grumpy because you don’t get to do it.”

“I’m not interested in braiding your hair, Lucinda.”

“Liar. And don’t call me that, or I’ll murder you.”

Luce tightened her grip around Sherlock’s waist and gave John a bright grin. “You have no idea how good he is with hair. I swear, Sherlock should have been a hairdresser. Actually, for a few months he wanted to be a hairdresser. It was either that or someone who blows things up for a living.”

“He manages to blow a lot of things up,” said John, because he felt like he had to contribute a bit more to this very one-sided conversation.

“Yeah, and blowing things up is nice if you’re Sherlock, I guess, but it really is a shame he only does his own hair these days,” said Luce thoughtfully, “because it’s a talent, it really is. I remember sitting on the big double bed in grandmother’s guest room, with Sherlock behind me, braiding my hair, trying out different hair styles. He could do that for hours, he kept himself occupied with it and he didn’t even get bored. Every now and then he’d hand me a mirror to show me how I currently looked. It was amazing. He did this incredible French Plait, that one was my favourite.”

John tried his very best to imagine Sherlock sitting cross-legged on a bed, braiding a teenage girl’s hair, and drew a complete blank. “He never told me he wanted to be a hairdresser.”

“Yeah,” Luce said, “that’s because your hair isn’t long enough for braiding.”

 

Sherlock was staring determinedly at the floor. Was he… blushing?

 

Luce apparently decided that she was done embarrassing her cousin and started to gather her notes and sketches from the table.

“I’m gonna get dressed and leave,” she announced, “and by the way, Sherlock – did you sleep okay? The couch must have been horrifying.”

“I can cope,” Sherlock said.

“You can totally sleep in your bed, you know. It’s big enough for two people and I feel guilty about kicking you out of your own room, and I told you that I can take the couch--“

“Oh, please,” Sherlock huffed, “I slept perfectly well. You just want to kick me in your sleep again. I don’t fancy bruises all over my legs because of your… vivid dreams, as you like to call it.”

Luce giggled. “I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t attack people in my sleep anymore. That was a temporary thing. Probably my body’s natural reaction to you.”

“Your body’s natural reaction to me for seven years in a row.”

“Well,” Luce said, “you became more of a pretentious git every summer, while I was a _delight_ and purely innocent, so I think you deserved a good nocturnal kicking now and then.”

“Purely innocent,” Sherlock huffed, “do you even hear yourself talk?”

Luce giggled.

 

John felt the blood rush to his face.

 

Sherlock had shared a bed with Luce before. They’d slept in the same bed at some point in their life, and there was no way on earth this didn’t mean anything.

 

It made so much sense.

 

John attacked the coffee machine because he had no idea what else to do with his hands.

 

The coffee tasted like crap. John wasn’t surprised.

 

\---

 

The second Luce left the flat, John began to feel more relaxed. It was ridiculous, but he had a legit physical reaction to her presence. He really had to get a grip on himself.

 

The evidence bags from Lestrade’s abduction case arrived around an hour later, and Sherlock practically pulled up his entire science equipment to coax the secrets out of those four dirty socks.

John watched as Sherlock began to examine fabric samples under his microscope. It didn’t look like he was going to explain the details of the case to John, and John decided to make another attempt to write the blog entry about the stupid stolen mirror. He ended up watching videos of dogs eating peanut butter instead.

An hour passed, before Sherlock carefully put the first sock back in the evidence bag and started to examine the second one.

 

“I’m having dinner with Luce tonight,” he announce all of a sudden.

John looked up. “Um, okay,” he said, “have fun.”

“I’m taking her to our favourite café. Actually, it used to be our favourite café when we were both in university, and I haven’t been there since. I hope it still exists. Well. If it doesn’t, I can still take her to Angelo’s. She likes Italian. Lasagna is her favourite.”

John didn’t know what irritated him more. That Sherlock had a favourite café he’d never heard about, or that he was willing to take Luce to Angelo’s.

Angelo’s was… a taboo, of sorts.

John had never taken a date there. Not even Mary.

(Especially not Mary.)

Angelo’s was… different. It was a place for giggly post-case dinners, for adrenaline-addled conversations and laughing fits. Angelo’s was where it had all started, it was reserved for the two of them, damn it. John pictured Luce and Sherlock at Sherlock’s favourite table - _their_ table – (the one in the corner, with the mirror next to it). Angelo would most certainly bring them a candle claiming it was ‘more romantic’, and he’d call Luce Sherlock’s date and make suggestive comments and try to meddle, and Sherlock and Luce would probably find it funny.

John had to fight the urge to throw his laptop on the floor in frustration.

 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, jolting John out of his increasingly dark thoughts, “It’s tar! There’s tar on the socks. John, hurry up, they’re at the harbour!”

“What –Who’s at the harbour?”

“The victims!” Sherlock practically yelled, “The abducted couple! And they’re still alive, but they won’t be in an hour, so _hurry up_ , John.”

 

 

 ---

 

 

On their way to the harbour, Sherlock filled him in on the details of the case.

It was a rather complicated story, but it all boiled down to a handful of hard facts they had to concentrate on. There were lives at stake, after all.

Two ex-employees of a container service company, one Ross Dobreski and one Arianne Kinsella, had been kidnapped on Friday.

Several years ago, when they were both in their early twenties, they had involuntarily worked as business spies for a wealthy Russian aristocrat who had tricked them into reporting to him. The container company had plunged into ruin due to their semi-legal activities, and now their former boss had decided that it was time for revenge. His plan included letting the two of them suffocate to death inside a sealed-up shipping container. A pleasant man, John figured.

How Sherlock had got any of this from two pairs of socks, John had no idea, but it didn’t really matter because somewhere close to them were two young people tied up in a container and scared to death.

 

As usual, the police was a lot slower than them.

They searched the harbour, or at least the part of the harbour Sherlock thought was most likely to have the murderous container in it. They ran through the endless labyrinth of containers and boat sheds, yelling the victims’ names, increasingly desperate to get a response, something that indicated that they were indeed still alive. It was sort of a hopeless endeavour, John thought. There were thousands, maybe ten thousands of old shipping containers, arranged in endless rows, some of them stacked on top of each other. It was completely hopeless.

 

The moment Lestrade called Sherlock to inform him that the police had arrived with tracker dogs, John heard something.

 

It was a weak, thin, female voice, muffled by the thick metal wall she was trapped behind. “Hello?” she yelled, “is there someone—can someone get us out of here? Please! Help!”

“Yes, we’re here,” John yelled back, “where are you? Keep talking to me! Keep talking so we can find you!”

Sherlock described their precise location to Lestrade, then joined John in his efforts. And his yelling.

 

They finally located the victims in a perfectly ordinary looking white container, in the middle of a row of white containers. The only thing that made this container different was the chain with the huge padlock. Of course the sadistic prick of a kidnapper had made sure there was no way in or out.

 

It took the police seven more minutes to find them, and another two minutes to bring out the saw that was powerful enough to cut the chain. Maybe Sherlock was right and they were a bunch of idiots. They were definitely slow.

 

John barely managed to find his way through the chaos that followed when the container had finally been opened.

 

Ross Dobreski and Arianne Kinsella were both alive, which was obviously a relief.

Dobreski was sitting on the ground in front of the container when John first caught sight of him, surrounded by police officers, sobbing and shivering. The young woman, Arianne, seemed a lot more composed but utterly exhausted. She was sitting in the back of one of the police cars with a shock blanket wrapped around her. John approached the car, not entirely sure what his objective was. --

 

“I’m going to tell you the whole story, I’m ready to make a statement, but please, I want to know who saved us and… and I want to see a doctor first,” she told Lestrade, who promptly waved John over and seemed relieved to be able to pass a bit of responsibility on to someone else.

 

“Hello, Miss Kinsella,” John said somewhat helplessly, “I’m a doctor, but, uh, I guess the paramedics are on their way, so—“

Arianne’s face lit up. “You—your voice,” she whispered, “it’s you! You came looking for us, you’re the one who found us. You saved my life!” She wiped a tear away and rubbed her eyes. “You saved our life,” she repeated, staring at John as if he was the most incredible person she’d ever seen.

“Well,” John said and reached for her hand to take her pulse. It was surprisingly steady. “Actually my friend did. Sherlock Holmes. He worked it all out. He solved the kidnapping case and he saved your life, he’s—“

John looked around. Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

“—he’s already left, I guess. But yeah. It’s him you should be thanking.”

Arianne smiled weakly. “I want to thank you anyway. And thanks for … for talking to me, I know you can’t do anything, you can’t fix us and I know they’ll take me to the hospital but—it was good to see you.” Her hands were trembling. “And tell Sherlock Holmes how grateful we are, Ross and I, will you?”

“I will,” John promised.

 

He just had to figure out where Sherlock was.

 

 

\---

 

 

John found Sherlock at Baker Street, of course. On the couch. Eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin, thinking. His Belstaff was on the floor

Luce wasn’t back from her city trip yet. John was glad.

 

“Sherlock?”

“Mmh.”

“You alright?”

Sherlock grunted.

John sighed. “Care to tell me why you vanished without a word?”

Sherlock opened one eye and glanced at John. “There was no reason to stay.”

“Yeah, there was, actually.”

“Mmh.”

“The victims would have like to talk to you. To thank you.”

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like _utterly pointless_.

“I know you don’t care if you get credit for what you do,” John said softly, “but sometimes, you know, it means a lot to people. You do incredible stuff, Sherlock. You save lives. I talked to the girl we rescued today, Arianne. She would have liked to thank you.”

“Why?”

John had no idea how to answer that. Sherlock was hopelessly oblivious at times, in that sort of endearing way that made John’s heart clench. He adored him. This stupid, brilliant man.

“Just… because,” he said helplessly.

Sherlock sat up abruptly and ran a hand through his curls. “So?” he said, “what difference would it have made? My job was done, Lestrade won’t need my statement until he’s caught the kidnapper and the case is being wrapped up.” He frowned. “And you were otherwise occupied, John,” he added, sounding almost accusing, “I wasn’t needed.”

John sighed. “You’re—you’re always needed,” he said, “you’re the one who made it all happen. Christ, those two people would be dead without you! You’re always the one everything revolves around. Let someone make a big deal out of it for once.”

Sherlock said nothing. He just gave him a look that could have meant anything at all.

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, “after all these years, you should start to understand that people think very highly of you and you’re –“ he cut himself off. God, this was the first serious conversation they’d had in ages, and Sherlock was genuinely listening to him. And John had no idea how to phrase what he wanted Sherlock to know. “You were unbelievable today. You’re amazing,” he finally said.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “I’ve heard that before,” he said slowly.

“Yeah. I still feel like I don’t tell you often enough.”

Sherlock smirked at him. “Mmh. You do that a lot more than you think. More than enough, actually.”

John grinned back, and felt like a part of all the weight had been lifted from his chest. They’d done it, together, they’d solved the case and saved two victims, and they were alright.

John was going to make tea and sit down next to Sherlock and tell him how amazing he was, and they were going to laugh about it and it was going to be like the good old times, the best of times--

 

And of course Sherlock’s cousin had to choose this exact moment to burst into their sitting room.

Wasn’t she supposed to be late for everything?

As far as John was concerned, she’d always managed to turn up too early so far.

 

Luce dropped her two heavy shopping bags on the floor, kicked off her stilettos and slumped down on the sofa next to Sherlock.

“Holy fuck,” she said emphatically, “John, is the story true?”

“The story?”

“Sherlock texted me, and according to him, you solved a case about socks and rescued two people from a murder container. All while I had coffee with Laura and spent too much money on books with smoothie recipes. It sounds like a action movie plot, so tell me, was he fiddling again or did any of this actually happen? Laura says she doesn’t believe it, but Laura is always wrong.”

John had no idea who Laura was or what she had to do with anything. “Yeah, well. Yes. It did happen. All of it, in fact,” he said.

Sherlock grumbled in the background

“I knew it.” Luce gave Sherlock a broad grin. “God, your life _is_ like a weird movie now, isn’t it? New plot twists every day.”

“The comparison has been drawn before,” Sherlock said dryly.

“I want to hear all the details. The entire story. I can’t believe what you get up to while I’m _here_. And I’m starving. You promised me dinner at Frankie’s, I think.”

“I did,” Sherlock confirmed.

Luce sighed. “God, the memories. I can’t wait.”

She practically jumped off the couch five seconds later, and reached for her high heels on the floor. John wondered if she’d ever stabbed someone with those stiletto heels. Probably not. Why would she do that anyway? What the hell was going on in John’s head?

“So, when are we leaving, then?” Luce asked.

“Right now if you want.”

“Spendid. John, are you coming?”

“No,” John said way too quickly, “um, no thanks. I’m not hungry. And you two have a lot to talk about, I guess.”

Luce beamed at him. “True. I would have loved to hear the container story from your point of view, though. Sherlock always exaggerates. Plus, you’re the story teller, aren’t you? With your blog and everything.”

John frowned. What was that supposed to mean? Did she want to drag him along to her - her _date_ with Sherlock so he could entertain them? Was that what he was good enough for? Cheap entertainment?

He felt bile rise in his throat. God, this Luce situation was getting worse with every minute.

 

 

\---

 

 

John didn’t try to stay awake to find out how long Sherlock and Luce had been gone. He really didn’t try, it just sort of happened.

He was still half-heartedly trying to read his book when he finally, _finally_ , heard footsteps, and the door downstairs was being opened. A glance at his watch confirmed that it was half past one in the morning. Sherlock and Luce had been away for literal hours.

John put his book aside and listened carefully. He absolutely wasn’t actively trying to eavesdrop. It just sort of… happened as well.

Sherlock and Luce were having a good time down there, if the loud giggling and animated conversation were any indication. John had never heard Sherlock giggle like this with another person. Or at anything that didn’t have to do with John. Or disfigured corpses. Or recently shot cabbies.

Sherlock didn’t giggle like an idiot with women he’d just taken to a student’s bar to wallow in memories. Also, Sherlock didn’t take women to student’s bars in the first place. Sherlock didn’t wallow in memories either.

Those things just didn’t happen, under any circumstances, ever.

 

John heard more giggling, voices, the creaking of the poor sofa under the weight of a body. One body, hopefully, John thought, and shivered.

It was silent after that.

Too silent.

John briefly contemplated going downstairs, just to figure out what was actually happening, but he decided that he was too afraid of what he might find.

 

He crawled under the covers to sulk.

Thankfully, he didn’t hear a sound for the rest of the night.

 

 


End file.
